“Ah, well,” Maggie sighed, “it’s been a good day all round – a very good day.”
“You go on. I’ll help with clearing up later,” Aisling reassured her mother, knowing that Maggie would find it hard to pass a cluttered kitchen.
“Good girl,” Maggie said, squeezing Aisling’s hand.
Aisling helped sorting out the tea and toast that her parents took upstairs to bed with them, and then she ran off to her bedroom. She abandoned the light cardigan and pulled on a thick Aran sweater instead and headed back down to the lake.
Jameson came out of the shadows of the trees to meet her at the bottom end of the garden. He had obviously been watching and waiting for her.
“I’m really enjoying this party tonight,” he told her, as they walked down the steps side by side. “I usually do things like this just for Thomas . . . but tonight I’m having a real good time because I’m with you.”
As they started moving into the groups of guests, Thomas suddenly appeared with an almost dazed grin on his face. They stood listening to him, while he described his favourite rockets, and how high they had gone over the trees. After a while, Jameson leaned over and whispered to Aisling, “I’m gonna take this guy home now. I reckon he’s dead on his feet although he’d never admit it.”
Aisling looked up at him, not sure whether he was saying goodbye.
“I’ll be right back,” he said reassuringly. “Or – if you could get away, you could come back with us . . .”
“I’d love to,” Aisling said, looking up at him wistfully. Apart from the desire to be alone with Jameson, she would have loved time to have seen his beautiful house in a more relaxed way than before. “But I’d better not . . . I need to spend a bit more time with Jean and Bruce and my cousins. I’ve hardly had time to talk to Michael and his girlfriend since we got back and I want to have a bit of a chat to them.”
Thomas gave Aisling a weary grin and a handshake, and then he and his father set off into the darkness, heading towards the white house at the opposite side of the moonlit water.
Aisling went back and joined her aunt and the others who were now drinking hot fruit punch and watching the last of the firework display.
An hour or so later, the crowd started to disperse from the lake, the fireworks all spent and the breeze now chilly. Groups wandered up towards cars to head off home, and the remaining family and friends moved inside to the warmth of the house.
The sound of Jean’s son, Michael, playing very competently on the guitar drew everyone into the large sitting-room, and his girlfriend Ali surprised everyone by accompanying his playing in a beautiful, clear voice. A neighbour then joined in with his flute, and suddenly there was another party going full swing in the house with people singing and clapping. Drinks and food were once again brought out, and Aisling circulated amongst the guests, chatting and handing out glasses and plates.
Sometime later, Jameson Carroll appeared at the door of the sitting-room and stood listening to the music and talking quietly to Jean and Bruce. Aisling approached him with a tray of drinks, but apart from the odd word and look, there was nothing that she felt gave any clue to their relationship.
Then, as she squeezed past him with a pile of empty glasses and plates, he moved towards her. “Let me do that,” he said, taking them from her.
Aisling pointed him in the direction of the kitchen, and then followed behind. She started washing up the crockery in the sink, while Jameson went off outside to pick up glasses that had been left on the deck.
“What
have
you done to that man?” Jean whispered as she filled a bucket with ice. “I would not have put him down as being the slightest bit domesticated. I can only assume that it’s your good influence!”
Aisling flushed and tried to think of something light and funny to say back. But by the time her brain had got into gear, her aunt had gone.
The party finally came to an end around two o’clock. Bruce had managed to coax his slightly ‘merry’ wife off to bed, tactfully using the excuse that they had another busy day coming up tomorrow. Then the last of the guests set off for home and those in the house headed for bed.
Then, there were only Jameson and Aisling left in the downstairs part of the house. As the last pair of footsteps disappeared out of earshot, they both gave a sigh of relief. Grateful that at long last they could relax and be natural with each other, without looking over their shoulders.
Jameson reached out and took her in his arms. He lowered his lips to her ear. “Come back to my house for a little while . . . I don’t feel good leaving the little guy on his own for too long.”
Aisling hesitated, then she looked up into his eyes. “I should really say ‘no’ but . . .”
“But?” he said, waiting.
“But
,” Aisling said, “I’m going to say ‘yes’ instead. I’ve spent all my life always saying and doing the right thing for everyone else.”
“And now?” he prompted.
“And now
,” Aisling said, smiling, “I’m going to do the right thing for
me
.”
He moved his forehead downwards so that it rested on hers. They stood like that for a few minutes, and then they both moved silently through the house, hand-in-hand.
They stayed silent, as they walked all down through the garden, round the lake with the yellow moon reflected across its surface until they reached the brightly lit fairytale house.
As they opened the front door, Jameson put his fingers to his lips, and then he went upstairs two at a time to check on Thomas.
“He’s completely zonked out,” he whispered when he came back down. They stood for a second in the large hallway, just looking at each other. Then, Jameson moved to wrap his arms around her, and Aisling felt all the reservations deep within herself fall away. They kissed and swayed against each other – then eventually Jameson held her gently at arms’ length. “I can think of lots of other things I’d like to do . . . but I guess we need to talk.”
“You’re right,” Aisling agreed in a low voice, but there was a reluctance within her to spoil all this. To spoil it with unknown things that might emerge from serious talking.
They went into the kitchen and Jameson made coffee in a large pot. Then he brought out two white pottery mugs, a small, poppy-decorated jug of thick cream and some kind of gingery-oaty home-made biscuits.
Aisling watched him as he worked about, marvelling at how mundane objects like mugs and biscuits seemed so different and almost artistic compared to those at home. She wondered if she were influenced by the unique feel of this particular house, or whether it was just that being American, things were naturally different.
Jameson carried the things across the room and then came to sit beside her at the old pine table. “I’ll start the confessions off first,” he said, pouring steaming dark coffee into the white mugs. “Because we need to get a lot of stuff out of the way . . . things that might make a big difference to what’s going on with us.” He passed a mug and the cream jug across to her. “I’m thirty-nine years old, divorced, and I’ve been on my own with Thomas for a long time. I guess I’ve had relationships with other women during that time – but nothing that lasted.”
Aisling felt a stab of jealousy at the mention of ‘other women’ – but she immediately fought it back. How could she possibly allow herself to feel jealous – when she had a living, breathing husband back home?
“There’s absolutely no one in my life at the moment,” Jameson continued, “and there hasn’t been for some time . . .”
He lifted his dark eyes towards Aisling’s face now – waiting.
“Okay,” she said, her throat suddenly feeling dry and tight, “I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’ve been married for seven years. I have no children . . .” She halted for a moment. It felt really strange – laying her life out like this. “My husband . . . Oliver,” she said, “has been unfaithful to me more or less since the beginning of our marriage.” She gave a little shrug. “It sounds strange, but in his own way I think he does actually love me, but I know that I’ll never be enough for him.”
She saw the American’s eyebrows rise in disbelief.
“Oliver seems to need the variety, the excitement and, I suppose – the constant newness of it all. After seven years, I’m not a novelty any more.” She stopped there. What else was there to say?
And yet, as they sat drinking the coffee and ignoring the biscuits – they found plenty to say. Aisling heard herself telling this quiet American stranger things that she had not voiced to another living soul. Not even to Pauline or Carmel. She told him about all the nights she had waited up for Oliver, and about all the blind eyes she had turned. And then finally, she told him about their anniversary weekend and the early-morning phone call.
“That was a few months ago,” she recalled, “and it was a shock to realise that I didn’t even feel hurt any more. I didn’t actually feel anything. I decided then, that I would never depend on him . . . never believe in him again . . . and that’s what I intend to do.”
“Are you going to divorce him?” Jameson asked quietly.
Aisling gave a wry smile. “You obviously don’t know – but divorce is not an option in Ireland.” She dropped her head. “I wish it was . . . but then there’s my parents. Especially my mother. She’s very religious, a strict Catholic, and I think it would nearly kill her.” She gave a quick glance at his face – knowing that however he looked, he would be shocked at what she was saying. “It probably sounds really stupid to you, and it must be hard to imagine what it’s like living in a little village, where everybody knows everybody else’s business.”
He listened, a slight nod confirming that he did understand.
“It’s very, very difficult for me,” Aisling said, suddenly conscious of sounding like a real moan. “But I know I can’t carry on living a lie forever. And I know that Oliver won’t change. And even if he did, I don’t think I could ever forget what he’s done.”
There was a small pause. “Do you still love him?” Jameson said quietly.
Aisling lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. “No,” she said in a very definite tone. “No, I don’t love Oliver any more. I don’t hate him . . . but I don’t love him. I’m not sure that I ever really did.” She hesitated, looking for the right words to explain the awful mistake she had made in her life. “I was young when we met and I fell for his good looks – he was the best of a small choice. I would have put up with that – made the best of it, if he had been different.”
“What d’you plan to do when you go back home?” Jameson asked.
She lifted her shoulders slightly. There was so much she didn’t know, hadn’t thought out. So much she had been trying to ignore. “I’ll wait and see. The holiday here was to get away from
the situation, so that I could think clearly.”
“And has it helped?” he said.
“Well,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “I think I knew the answer before I came – I either learn to live with things or I leave. It’s as simple as that.” She lifted her coffee, but before she could drink it, Jameson’s hand came to cover the mug.
“I’ll get you a fresh one,” he said, smiling. “That’s gone cold.”
Aisling watched him as he got two more clean mugs and poured the coffee into them, and she wondered how she could be this comfortable with someone she hardly knew.
But as he walked towards her now, she knew the a
nswer. Deep down there was something achingly famili
ar about him. And it had been there from the start. Something inside him that echoed something deep inside her.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the fresh coffee from him. “Now you’ve heard all the bad news about me – I think it’s your turn again.”
A shadow crossed his face, and Aisling could tell that however long ago it all was, it was still very painful for him.
“The reason I divorced her is plain and simple: Thomas. And,” he gave a bitter little laugh, “that’s precisely what she thought he was – only I think her
description was
ugly and simple.”
Aisling gasped. “Oh, God . . .” was all she could say.
“Verity was a model,” Jameson said in a flat tone.
Verity was a model
, Aisling thought ruefully. It just had to be something glamorous and unusual to make her feel plain by comparison.
“Her looks were everything to her,” Jameson said. “They still are.”
Aisling dropped her gaze to the floor. Verity’s exotic name obviously went with her exotic looks.
Jameson got up from the table now and walked over to the window. “She just couldn’t believe that she’d produced a less than perfect child. She blamed me – said she hadn’t wanted kids anyway. She only had Thomas to keep me happy and to keep my money.” His voice had a strained note in it now. “She couldn’t even pick him up when he was born, and when they came home she was so depressed that I had to get a woman in to look after him. That was her ticket to freedom. She was out then – pretending that she’d never given birth to him.”
“What did you do?” Aisling asked.
“I just took it . . . thinking that it would eventually change. That she would get it out of her system. That things would eventually get better . . .”
“I know that feeling . . .” Aisling said quietly.
“I carried on, took all the shit – for three goddamn years.” He leaned on the window-ledge now, staring out into the floodlit garden. “Then, one day I woke up to it all, and I just took Thomas and left. Verity got what she wanted. The house in New York, and freedom from me and Thomas.”